


>ouroboros—

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Daddy Kink, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Light BDSM, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Papa!gil, Personification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Selfcest, Sexual Content, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27898882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: After being attacked by John Watkins, Malcolm has a hard time feeling whole.Inspired by vore but no graphic depictions.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	>ouroboros—

**Author's Note:**

> for friends who inspire me <3 credit to them for putting inspiration into my head and coming up with the name

Malcolm’s shell is split in two, head from tail, both halves wanting. His head thirsts for fulfillment from a case, the chase of helping others and sometimes learning more about his father. His tail craves connection, an opportunity to curl around another and click into place. His insides remain empty, barren of identity.

A vision of himself lays further down the counter. Whole, compact for easy travel, within reach. He spins along the surface and looks at the pristine version of himself, somehow unharmed by any outside influences.

_Snap_.

His two halves close around, devour the model image. A buzz of satisfaction rattles through him stronger than any previous sexual experience. It’s exhilarating, a straight shot of morning coffee through his veins with an afterglow of charisma. A pasted smile lands on his face, framed by rosy cheeks.

Malcolm’s shell is split in two, bigger halves, still as bruised. Neither side quite satisfied with their current view of life, half empty and half empty leaving a giant hole inside.

A prior view of self resting further down the counter. Half-hard, he considers what would be hotter — distance as he works himself or resistance, his shell rubbing against another. The curve of his cock calls, reaches for company.

He clatters along the surface toward the familiar. Hair swept back, eyes glazed, wet lips begging to be met, fucked ’til they’re plump and cherry red. Begging for release —

_Snap_.

He comes as he clicks into himself, spilling within. His earlier form locked inside of him, he tips over on the counter, spent.

Malcolm’s shell is split in two, still bigger yet as if his halves worked together to build extra height. Another half a centimeter total if they come together. But he is in pieces, his head and tail arguing with each other.

_Father_. _Daddy_. _Father_. _Daddy_. His head wrestling with the torment of Dr. Whitly and his tail seeking the comfort of those who would truly care for him as he comes down from a delicious escape. Dr. Whitly’s accomplice torturing him into a space that he struggles with seeking the release he craves.

As Malcolm clacks along the counter, he sounds like his restraints pulling against the bed frame, begging for more, Daddy, _please_.

_Snap_.

It’s an easy fit around his old self, custom-made armor for his frame. A steady rattle inside of restraints gives way to tip into oblivion. Blissful peace.

Malcolm’s shell is split in two, the biggest form of all with winding traces of glue. Head has a scar winding down the shoulder while tail has a scar around the middle. The only concept of whole is the gigantic gap in his center, more sardonic crutch than reality.

_Work_. _Sex_. _Work_. _Sex_. Neither half happy because they don’t consider all of the rest of the things required to support a functioning man. A shelf of supplements. A bed of relaxation. A home of memories of click, snap, clack of the shutter piecing him together through time. Smiles no one recognizes because none of them are true, all of them figments of an alternate reality.

_Click, click._

_Click, click._

He teeters back and forth, making slow but deliberate progress forward in an attempt to connect to his former self.

_Click, click_. He’s coming. 

_Click, click._ He’ll make it. 

_Click, click._ He can fill the emptiness.

It’s an unfulfilling orgasm when he snaps around himself, sadness leaking through every crevice. He falls off the counter and crashes onto the floor, all of his pieces strewn across the kitchen. Two, four, six, eight halves half-less spinning on the floor. One tiny glimpse of a whole Malcolm left alone, aimless by himself.

“Bright, you okay?” A hand on his shoulder. Strong. Hints of cinnamon. Gil.

Matryoshka halves in their own orbits, the pieces of nesting dolls all too far away for Malcolm to catch in one go. Past lives all mingling, lingering on the carpet of Gil’s office floor, yet none of them able to link up and become one.

Malcolm’s hand trembles on the display shelf. His kitchen counter. The display shelf. Gil’s office. All of his senses rushing impulses back to his center, begging to go home, protect himself.

“Kid?” That same hand shifting to his neck, squeezing. Gil trying to get through to him.

“Not okay.” Malcolm’s legs drift from under him. A chair. Gil’s office chair. Hands on his knees.

“Can you look at me, kid?”

His head on his knees. Between them. Halves of himself spinning out on the floor, some of them coming to rest right side up, others upside down. Heads and tails, he’s not even sure what the right side is anymore, his whole life falling between his fingers.

His head says he can’t breathe, each inhale ratcheting faster in a winless race, his tail can’t stay in the seat. Whole body attempting to slide forward, Gil anchors him to the chair.

“Focus on your breathing. One, two, three…” Gil seems to breathe so easily, but thirty-two years are crushing Malcolm’s back. “…Nine, ten. One, two, three…”

Malcolm’s shell has spidery cracks filled with whatever salve had been on hand. He’s not shiny as the finest gold celebrating reformation of beautiful pottery, he’s pitted and cloudy wherever they’ve healed over. Carefully massaged in by himself or the man who’s been with him through everything.

“Breathe for me, kid. One, two, three…” Gil’s words keep rolling over and over on repeat until they start to sink through Malcolm’s skin.

“Four, five, six,” Malcolm says, catching onto the cadence.

“You’re doing good, kid. Real good,” Gil encourages. “One, two, three…”

Malcolm follows the pace car until he’s slowly breathing on his own in the chair. Halved, head over knees, holding his body together.

As he becomes more aware of his limbs again, he looks on the floor for the mess he created. It’s gone. Starts to sit up a little to look around — finds the matryoshka reassembled, nesting together whole on Gil’s desk. Cracks on the outer shell where he’d broken it as a kid, yet functional.

Consuming layer after layer, can he still love himself? Will he get to a relative place of wholeness after his kidnapping that he will be comfortable seeking companionship again? He needs all of the parts of his life back.

“What can I get you, kid?” Gil makes eye contact with him, but Malcolm can only stare back. Gil squeezes his knee. “Some water, maybe?”

Malcolm dips his head. It seems to be enough of a nod, for Gil comes back with a mug of water. Malcolm grips the mug with his steady hand and takes in the cool refreshment. “Home?” he asks quietly when he’s finished, and Gil guides him out to the parking garage.

On the drive, Malcolm has the chance to close his eyes and collect his thoughts. Click, snap, clack they stack into each other, rearranging the fragments. By the time they get inside his loft, he's ready to talk. "I’m being self-destructive,” he admits, forearms leaning on his counter. Gil still behind him somewhere, Malcolm can’t tell whether he thinks that’s an understatement of the danger he ran into on scene. “I think I need some more time.”

“Whatever you need, kid.”

“Sex.”

Gil chuckles a little. “I can’t help you with that.”

“Well“—Malcolm spins and waves his hand between them as he reaches to explain—“to be healthy enough myself to feel comfortable having it. With myself first, then hopefully someone else. I can’t even sleep with my restraints right now, never mind…“ His arms keep moving like he’s still talking. “Not that I sleep much at all… It’s not sex per se but being me, doing all the things I could do before… Dive into work, feel _alive_ …”

Things he wants, needs sometimes to manage his health, taken by John Watkins in his mother’s basement — restraints, sleep, companionship. Indirect things Watkins may not have meant to affect, but he did. Direct things he inflicted. A wound in his side patched over, yet the wounds in his mind persistent and reopening. Fractured memories that may not ever become whole, left wanting a gentle caress, a kiss.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, handcuffs and chains looking back at him. Sleeping restraints. Chains. What is sleep?

“You can come to the house, you know?” Gil’s still there? Standing halfway between the kitchen and bedroom like he’s not sure how close he should get. With all of his scars, maybe it’s difficult for Gil to recognize him.

“I have to do this on my own,” Malcolm says to the floor as if he’ll find more pieces to help put himself together when they’re already all inside of him.

“You don’t.” Gil’s hand on his shoulder, eyes ducking to find his eyes. He’s not being distant — he’s carefully asking what Malcolm needs, taking the lead from him instead of assuming.

Malcolm doesn’t quite know what he’d even ask for. One half is full of wanting to ask him to stay, and the other half is empty, knowing there’s no substitute for doing the work himself. “It’s not a zero-sum game, Malcolm.” Gabrielle’s voice, guiding him to alternative choices that don’t involve breaking things down the middle.

Malcolm lays out on his bed, exhausted. His brain’s a web of theories and fizzled connections trying to make sense of an attack when there isn’t any logic to be found in a senseless act. That knowledge hadn't made it any easier to let go of investigating The Surgeon, and time sure hasn't made it any easier to deal with his accomplice.

“I can go.” Gil’s voice peeks in from the side of the bed.

“No,” Malcolm answers quickly. The idea of waking up in the stairwell alone again prickles fear under his skin, never mind being terrified of making it out the front door the next time. He needs to work back to managing on his own, but maybe that day doesn’t need to be today. “Please.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

A past vision of himself sits at the counter in Gil’s gaze. Malcolm closes his eyes. He did what he had to do to save himself and his family from John Watkins — the only direction now is forward.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
